


Oh Give Me a Home

by kaoruyogi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Lyrium Withdrawal, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Minor Lavellan/Solas, Minor Sera/Dagna, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Wild West AU, old west au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:02:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12027705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaoruyogi/pseuds/kaoruyogi
Summary: Sheriff Cullen Rutherford is a man of simple needs. He desires only a roof over his head, a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and a job to do. All of these needs are met in Val Sable in the Western Approach. That is, until a murder brings fledgeling druffalo rancher, Miss Dahlia Trevelyan, into town on the one o'clock stagecoach. Educated, beautiful, and as ladylike as they come, her presence turns his needs on their ear.With the fate of an entire town twisted up in the mess that brought Dahlia into his life, Cullen wonders if he can become the man everyone needs. He prays he can become the man Dahlia Trevelyan needs.





	Oh Give Me a Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, fair reader, to my Old West/Wild West AU!!! I've had this one stuck in my head for a while now, and now seemed as good a time as any to put the first bit of it out there!
> 
> I hope you have as much fun reading this as I have writing it!!!
> 
> <3

 

The weight of the six-shooter on Cullen’s hip grounded him. He rested his right hand on his belt, fingertips brushing against that dark metal and ivory handle. A part of him hated standing out in the heat and the dust waiting for the daily stagecoach, though he did it every afternoon like clockwork.

He stood there, sweating under his hat, the wide brim of which bore the small mercy of keeping the sun from his amber eyes. He could feel more sweat beading under his arms, and he shuffled his stance to prevent the moisture from touching the smaller pistol tucked against his ribcage. The windless heat bore down on him like an old corpse, rank and heavy and stale. His office would not be much better when he returned. It would have even less airflow, if that was possible. He could not voice these complaints, however. Such was the nature of Solace in the Western Approach. Such was the nature of midday in the summer months. Such was the nature of his position as Sheriff of Val Sable, a small city named for its expanse of sand. Fitting.

Cullen waited for the clock to strike one. Sera’s stagecoach was never late. He suspected that had something to do with the five shot pistols on either side of her hips and the repeaters on either side of the driver’s seat. He never did ask her, though. He also never asked about the full to bursting satchels she took to and from the general store each trip. He suspected she would be evasive, and was certain Dorian would fop him off with some flippant remark or another. Cullen was content not to know. No harm was being done by the contents of those satchels, so he did not need to know.

A bead of sweat dripped into his eye just as the clock tower began to ring out the hour. _Bing bong, bing bong. Bing bong, bing bong. BONG._ One in the afternoon. With his left hand he rubbed the sting of the sweat from his eye. The rumble of the stage, still several hundred yards away, shook tiny tremors beneath his boots. Right on time.

With his eyes clear, Cullen squinted into the distance in the direction from which the stage always approached. He could see the dark outline of the wooden passenger compartment and the blonde hair and white teeth of the driver. Sera always grinned like a madwoman while she drove into town, another fact about which Cullen had never seen fit to ask her. As the coach drew closer, he could make out Sera’s auburn-haired partner, Dagna, seated beside her, smiling just as widely. The pair of them made for an unnerving sight.

Dust whirled about the wheels and billowed out behind the stagecoach as it passed through the edge of town. That dust hovered in the air for a long while before dissipating in some direction or another. The stop was about twenty feet from where Cullen was standing, between the Iron Bull’s saloon and boarding house and his husband, Dorian’s, general store. They were the most moneyed couple in town, which was not to say they had the most money in town. Miss Montilyet wore that title with ease and a surprising amount of humility. She had made her fortune in the oil fields in the Hissing Wastes, and she employed many of the townsfolk in various positions. She was, in a way, the lifeblood of Val Sable.

Sera let out a final few “yips” and “yahs” before calling out a “woah” to slow her four-horse team. More dust whipped up and swirled about in the vacuum of the coach’s rapid halt. It floated into Cullen’s eyes and into his nose and into his lungs as he approached to greet everyone inside and outside the dark cabin. He fought the urge to cough. It would have made him seem weak in front of the new arrivals, a way he could not afford to seem, outnumbered as he was by his citizenry.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” said Sera as she hopped off, kicking up more brown dust and dirt with her sloppy landing.

Cullen tipped the front of his wide brim as he nodded. “Good afternoon, Miss Sera. Miss Dagna.” The chipper dwarf waved, only her hand visible across the driver’s box.

He moved to stand in front of the door, as was his routine. He waited for that stage every day in order to greet its passengers. Most of them would be people he knew, and it was just the polite thing to do as Sheriff. Some people, however, would be newcomers. Those, he had to assess. He had to let them know who the Sheriff was as much as he had to let them know the Sheriff knew who they were. Not one nameless soul existed in Val Sable in Cullen’s eyes. They all had names attached to faces attached to bodies attached to personalities, and he knew every one of them. He’d made it his business to know every one of them. It made sussing out the liars and the criminals easier.

When the door opened, local after local poured out of the passenger compartment. Older ladies who had gone to visit their “other sons’” children in Val Royeaux, young men and women who had gone back to see friends or family or to bring money to or from the cities. All were familiar to him. The very last passenger to exit was the very first he did not recognize.

She was dressed all in black, wearing a dress that was in fashion, as fashion had once been described to him by Madame de Fer. The frock had layers and lace and a large bustle, and was buttoned up high on the young woman’s pale neck. Her hat was also black, a curved sort of derby adorned with a large black bow and an equally large black feather. It was fastened over a bundle of dark and wavy hair, nearly black in its own right. Only when she stepped out of the carriage and into the sun in full could he see that it was a deep shade of brown.

The lady dusted off the front of her dress and stood straight to face him. Her features were severe and soft all at once. Her jaw and her nose were all angles, but her lips and her eyes were rounded and plush, though the corners of her mouth were turned down a bit. Her eyes, however, were piercing. They were tinted a blue so vibrant they all but glowed under the afternoon sun. They were blue like lyrium was blue, and his chest ached the moment he saw them.

She stared at him for a long while before his wits returned to him. He tipped his hat again and took her gloved hand as a man takes a woman’s hand when he first meets her. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I am Sheriff Cullen Rutherford, and I would like to officially welcome you to Val Sable, Missus…”

“Miss,” she said. Her voice was not as light as he had suspected. There was a sharpness to it. “Trevelyan. Dahlia Trevelyan. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sheriff Rutherford.” He would not have known it from her tone. Her accent was Ferelden, though it was tinged and muddled with any number of others she had picked up in her travels. It was distinct and dignified, despite its amalgamation.

“Likewise, Miss Trevelyan.” He released her hand. “Forgive me, but are you related to Donal Trevelyan?”

“My father,” she said, raising her chin just a bit. That explained the black dress.

“I am sorry, Miss Trevelyan. His passing was…regretful.”

“His passing? His murder, Sheriff Rutherford. I believe you meant to say his _murder_ was regretful. And that is saying the least of it.” Her blue eyes bored their anger into him, though none of it was meant for him. The _thud_ of her trunk hitting the dirt tore their gazes from one another for a moment, allowing them the opportunity to reaffix their eyes with a touch more civility.

“I apologize, Miss Trevelyan. I did not mean to imply—”

“You didn’t imply anything, Sheriff. I’m sorry for my response. One would think that after having had more than a month to come to terms with all this, I might actually have come to terms with it.” She pulled a small white handkerchief from the drawstring satchel he had not noticed until just then, and she dabbed at the corner of her eye.

“The death of a parent is not such an easy thing.” Maker’s breath, this conversation had gotten out of his depth in naught but a few words. His hand reached for the back of his neck against his better judgment.

“That it is not.” She folded the handkerchief into a tidy little triangle before placing it back in the small satchel. “Not to change the subject away from untimely parental demise—it is such a pleasant topic of conversation, after all—but might you know where I could hire a carriage to take me the rest of the way to my father’s property? As you can see, I have my belongings with me, and they are too numerous to simply hire a horse.”

“Will you not be staying in town?” There was a disappointment in the idea.

She puffed out a laugh that she seemed to find unbecoming and stifled it right away. “Well, Sheriff Rutherford, that would be rather impractical. I cannot very well run my father’s ranch and business from miles away in town now, can I?”

Cullen adjusted his stance, kicking up a bit of dirt in the process. He had forgotten all his good manners in the span of a few moments. He did his best to chase the dubiousness from his expression. “Ma’am, do you inte—”

“Miss.”

“I’m sorry. Miss, do you intend to run your father’s druffalo ranch on your own?”

Her expression went unchanged, as though she thought the question without merit. “Not at all. I intend to run my father’s druffalo ranch with the assistance of the ranch hands who have worked with him for the past several years. As for the business—the accounting and such—I do intend to run that on my own.”

Cullen reached for the back of his neck again. His forearm brushed the brim of his hat. It was a telling habit. Something he needed to quit if he was meant to be around such civil ladies as Dahlia Trevelyan. “Ma’am—”

“Miss, Sheriff Rutherford. I may be of a rather matronly age, but I have never been married.” She wrung her hands for a moment so brief, he thought he imagined it. She could not have been more than twenty-eight years old, and that was older than he assumed she was before she mentioned it.

“I apologize, Miss Trevelyan. It’s just that I’m a bit…flummoxed at the moment. I meant no disrespect. You do not appear—Your age is not—I—” He looked away from her lyrium blue eyes and let out a sigh. Her composure was confounding.

“It’s perfectly alright, Sheriff. We were discussing a carriage for hire.”

Miss Trevelyan was the picture of equanimity in the face of Cullen’s stammering. Her confidence came with a measured ease. He had little doubt that she had been forced to contend with his befuddled ilk more times than she would care to recall. Unimpressed with his continued silence, she turned her head, exposing just a sliver of her pale neck. “Excuse me,” she said with a flutter of her outstretched hand. “Miss? Miss—I’m terribly sorry, I did not get your name.”

Sera turned from the carriage, where she was packing up the full satchels she had just collected from Dorian. Cullen peered over in a vain attempt to spy the contents. “Name’s Sera.” She poked her thumb out behind her. “This is Dagna.” With no amount of discretion, she spat a gob of chaw-browned saliva into the dirt, sucked her teeth, and smiled.

Miss Trevelyan’s delicate gloved fingers recoiled a bit in in air. “Ah.” Her poise wavered. “A pleasure to meet you. Would you, perchance, be amenable to taking me as far as the Trevelyan Ranch about a mile west of town?”

The small blonde elf leaned back against her coach, hands in the pockets of her britches that always sat just a bit wrong on her hips. A fresh bead of sweat perched on Cullen’s eyebrow.

“Don’t go west of town. Nothing there. We stop in town, rest the horses so we can go back to Val Royeaux before dawn. We run on time, so no extra rides, yeah? Besides, the horses are knackered. Wouldn’t get you there anyway.”

“Oh.” Miss Trevelyan paused for a moment. The wheels in Cullen’s mind began to turn as he watched her. “Would you happen to know who might be willing to take me west? I understand the inconvenience, and I’m willing to pay—”

“Dennett’s your man. Owns a stable near the Chantry, that way.” Sera poked her thumb out again to point the way. “Got the Chantry smelling like straw and shit, but his horses are good and he keeps his barley wagon in good shape. His wife makes a mean ram chili, too. Sticks to your bones. But he’ll take you, for a price. You got a horse there to get you back, or what?” The corner of her lower lip jutted out a bit where her tobacco sat.

“According to my father’s will, there are three strong horses at the ranch. I suppose that means yes. You said Mister Dennett’s stable is this way?” Miss Trevelyan leaned and stepped twice toward Dennett’s.

Cullen was overwhelmed. He was not prepared to stop talking to the newcomer for an as yet undetermined amount of days or weeks. There was something unusual about her. He shuffled toward her and kicked more dirt into the air, and it stuck to his perspiration and to the hem of his jeans.

“I can take you,” he said before he knew he was saying it.

Miss Trevelyan’s head turned back toward him. “I’m sorry?”

The small Remington under his left arm thumped through his vest and his cotton shirt and against his ribs when he reached up to wipe the moisture from between his sweatband and his forehead. “I can take you your father’s ranch, Miss Trevelyan. I have a wagon that my deputy and I use to haul prisoners and arms. I am certain it will keep your things in neat order. I can show you the town while we walk to my station house.”

Her lips parted just so before she said, “That’s very generous of you, Sheriff. I appreciate the offer, but I would hate to keep you from your duties for such a time.”

“That _is_ very generous of you, Sheriff,” said Sera with too easy a smile. Easy enough to make him uneasy.

“It’s no trouble. Deputy Barris is quite capable. He can manage without me for an hour or so. It will give me a chance to speak with my brother, at any rate.”

Her dark brows pinched together. “Your brother?”

“Yes, Branson Rutherford. He is the Cow Boss on your father’s ranch. Have you not been corresponding with him?”

Those dark brows separated once more and rose high. Their pointed corners vanished under the near-black waves surrounding her face. “I have not. I have only discussed my plans with the cowman, Cole. He was the one to tell me of my father’s death.” She said “cowman” as if it were a newly learned word of a foreign language. She cringed a bit.

“I suppose that makes sense, seeing as Branson did not mention your impending arrival when last we spoke.”

Cullen’s gunbelt had begun to feel weighty at his hip. He could not abide idleness, and his body struggled with his prolonged inactivity. A dull ache spread from the base of his neck and the bridge of his nose. It coated the inside of his skull like oil, thick and opaque. Miss Trevelyan was still as she contemplated his proposal, the shallow rise and fall of her chest and the occasional blink her only signs of life. Even the ebony feathers on her ornate derby seemed to freeze in the dead air.

“Alright,” she finally said. “I’ll take you up on your offer. But, Sheriff, if it would be agreeable to you, might we have a glass or two of water before we make our way? It is…warmer here than it was in Val Royeaux.” Her tact was admirable.

“Of course. This way, Miss Trevelyan.” Cullen held his arm out behind him, and she lifted the front of her skirt to follow his gesture. “Sera, would you please see Miss Trevelyan’s trunk to the station house?”

“Of course,” said Sera, rolling her shoulders against her coach and tilting her head back. It worried him when she repeated after him. “Even load it for you.” She had a habit of making a game of his disquiet.

With his gut churning and cold, he turned to lead Miss Trevelyan into the Herald’s Rest. The slatted and swinging shingles that passed for doors squeaked as he pushed them open for her to enter. She stopped just inside, the feathers on her head swaying about slowly as she took in the sights and sounds around her.

The bulk of the saloon was contained in a single, large room. It was tall and wide, built with sturdy pinewood planks and bricks of desert clay. Only a few of the windows were clean enough to let in proper daylight, the rest left coated with enough dirt and sand to obscure any debauchery inside. At the far end of the room was a stairwell, worn from use, that led up to the rooms belonging to Madame Vivienne and her ladies. They were far from the kind of lady Miss Trevelyan was, but they were every bit as deserving of respect. The Iron Bull ensured that they were shown such respect under his roof. As the newcomer surveyed the space, Bull stood behind the mahogany bar, pouring drinks and grinning. The broad-shouldered and broad-horned Qunari had a roar of a laugh, and it vied with Miss Maryden’s piano playing as both sounded through the room. One or two of the men and women at the many tables spread about the place glanced toward the proprietor before turning back to their conversations and games of Wicked Grace.

Iron Bull’s one good eye caught sight of the Sheriff and their new guest, and his toothy grin expanded. “Cullen!” he said with a beckoning wave. “Come on over to my bar and sit a spell. Bring your lovely new friend.”

“We’ve only come in for a glass of water, and unless Miss Trevelyan desires a meal as well, we will not be staying long.”

Bull held out his massive hand as they approached, and took her silk clad fingers delicately. “Trevelyan, eh?” Their hands appeared to nod to one another. “The prodigal daughter appears.”

Her blue eyes took the man in, appraising his wide horns and his hulking form. “You also knew my father, then?”

“He was one of our regulars.”

Miss Trevelyan glanced at the stairs. “Oh.”

Iron Bull chuckled deep and hearty as he reached under the bar and brought out two clean glasses. “Not that kind of regular.” He reached under the bar again and brought out a pitcher coated in a thick layer of condensation. The product of one of Dagna’s ice runes, no doubt. “He came in a couple times a week for a meal. He liked Cabot’s cooking.”

“Oh.” The second sound was rife with relief.

“What brings you to Val Sable, Miss?” Of course he could remember to call her Miss. “Are you selling your father’s ranch?”

She looked perplexed. “Selling? I was not aware there were any interested buyers.”

“No one told you? Coryph—”

“Bull,” said a velvet voice from the base of the stairs. Their conversation was lost to the utterance, and all attention turned to see Vivienne de Fer crossing to the bar. She wore white, as she always did. Her corset was cinched up tighter than Miss Trevelyan’s, and Cullen regularly wondered how she breathed. Her skirt fell in long ruffled lines around her oft exposed calves. “Would you be a dear and have a bottle of champagne brought to Gabrielle’s room? Nothing too expensive, just something with bubbles.”

Bull’s grin shifted. “Yes, ma’am. Have you met Miss Trevelyan?”

Madame Vivienne’s responding smile had a serpentine quality to it. It came on slow and smooth. “I have not.” The women bowed their heads to one another in the smallest form of curtsy deemed appropriate between ladies of such standing. “You must be Donal’s daughter. A pleasure.”

“It seems everyone here knew my father. Perhaps better than I did, in more recent years.”

“He was a lovely man, my dear.” Bull set out a tumbler of clear liquor. The Madame lifted it, and the glass frosted over in her hand. It was the very least of her power. Cullen had once threatened her with arrest for freezing a man, though she was absolved of any wrongdoing when he discovered that the man had struck one of her ladies. “Always respectful.”

“I’m glad to hear that, especially since he had a bit of an aversion to my skills when they first manifested.”

Miss Trevelyan snapped her fingers with a muffled _thump_ , and a small spark cracked in the air. A mage. She was a mage. Unwanted fear bit at Cullen’s subconscious. He knew not to be afraid. He knew there were mages he could trust. He knew there were mages he did trust. He tried to remember the lessons he’d learned after the Civil War, and he tried to stop the hand near his pistol from trembling.

Madame Vivienne looked pleased at the development. “How old?”

“Eight.”

“Very young. You must be quite skilled by now.”

The two women exchanged a look that must have communicated a great deal. They each appeared both satisfied and wary of one another just as a small ruckus turned attention to the stairwell once again.

Bull’s waitress, Flissa, yelped and nearly dropped the bottle of cheap champagne she was carrying when she almost collided with two people descending the stairs. She cried out an overzealous apology before running past them, her boots pounding on each stair. Unfazed and unscathed, Solas continued on his way down. One of Madame Vivienne’s ladies clung to his arm. She was a diminutive Dalish woman with deep indigo facial tattoos like branches, her straight blonde hair tangled and wild and the loose straps of her dress dangling about her shoulders. Her expression was painted over with a lethargic kind of satedness. A lazy smile turned her lips.

Cullen watched the two murmur their farewells. Behind him, he heard Miss Trevelyan say, “There is a Dalish woman here?” Her tone was more enthusiastic than most. She sounded delighted at the prospect.

“Myriani? Yes, she has lived in Val Sable for years. A band of brigands attacked her clan and absconded with her when she was a girl. She managed to escape before anything untoward happened, but her clan was gone. Another clan with whom we trade, Clan Lavellan, took her in for a time—reared her. She came to me some time ago, out of place among her people, and I provided her with an alternative.”

Myriani let go of Solas’s arm, brimming with obvious reluctance. He kissed her once on the cheek before parting from her. She watched him walk away, brown eyes wistful. She loved him.

“Sheriff,” he said in greeting as he passed.

“Doctor,” said Cullen in answer.

“I do hope to meet more of the Dalish. All of these unfounded rumors of their brutality…It is a shame what Thedas is doing to them,” said Miss Trevelyan. It was a sentiment Cullen shared.

After a moment, she spoke again. “Shall we make our way, then, Sheriff Rutherford?”

“Yes, of course, Miss Trevelyan.” He remembered this time.

They left the saloon, and Cullen showed her the town as they walked the wooden boardwalk toward the station house. Opposite the direction they were headed, he directed her attention to the town’s Chantry, Dennett’s stables, and a number of houses and apartments. He pointed across the dust and dirt road from where they stood to Dorian’s general store, Haven. Beside that was the bank Varric ran. Attached to the bank—but not on the side containing the vault, Varric assured everyone—was the school at which Varric taught. He fancied himself a jack of all trades, and the work gave him access to the goings on of the entire town, which he documented with agonizing detail. Across from the school and the bank sat Harritt’s smithy. Harritt never would admit it, but Cullen knew the man relished the idea of waking the drunken patrons of Bull’s saloon just after dawn with the clangs of his family hammer.

Harritt also woke Cullen every morning with those clangs. Cullen lived in a windowed room above the jail in the station house next door to the forge. He minded the raucous awakening less than Madame Vivienne’s ladies or the drunks laying with them did. Harritt was steady as a ticking clock, and it put Cullen at ease to know the day had begun without a second thought.

Inside the station house, Delrin was sifting through the new warrants and wanted posters delivered on Sera’s stagecoach. It was his ritual to sort them in piles of known citizens, known criminals and marauders, and unknown criminals and marauders. His task seemed near completion when Cullen and Miss Trevelyan entered.

Delrin only glanced up for a moment, and nodded his head to Cullen. Embarrassed at his deputy’s inappropriate greeting in the presence of a lady, Cullen cleared his throat. Delrin looked up again, and this time he noticed her. His boots scrabbled about on the floorboards until he found his footing and leapt to his feet, green eyes wide, hat in hand.

“Good afternoon, Miss,” he said. Why was it that every other soul in this town remembered to call her Miss?

“Good afternoon.”

Sweat beaded on the man’s umber skin as he stood at attention. His eyes flicked back and forth between Cullen and Miss Trevelyan, and Cullen realized that he had forgotten his manners yet again. “Deputy Delrin Barris, this is Miss Dahlia Trevelyan.”

Delrin stepped forward and took Miss Trevelyan’s hand in the same way Cullen had done. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Trevelyan.”

“And you, Deputy.”

“Welcome to Val Sable. I’m very sorry about what happened to your father.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Trevelyan. A loaded silence fell over them, bloating the room. She sighed through her nose and smiled just a bit. “Well then, would you gentlemen mind escorting me to your wagon so the Sheriff and I might be on our way?”

Both men said, “Of course,” in near perfect unison. It was no wonder, Cullen thought as they made their way to the back of the station house, that they worked so well together. They were such similar men with such similar experience and such similar inexperience, as their fumbling response to the presence of Miss Trevelyan demonstrated.

Sera, true to her word, had loaded the newcomer’s trunk onto the back of the wagon. Both men made their apologies for the quality of the cart and the lack of a proper carriage in town. Miss Trevelyan was calm and dignified in her kind reply that she did not mind the cart, so long as it took her where she needed to go. Cullen held her hand as she climbed atop the driver’s box and watched for a moment when she pushed her bustle out behind her to sit. Only her low-heeled and expensive boots stopped her ankles being seen.

The mile and a quarter journey to the Trevelyan Ranch was quiet, save for the clunks and clacks and creaks and groans of the wagon and the rattle of Cullen’s sidearm against the driver’s box. Miss Trevelyan surveyed the land along the way. Her eyes lingered over buttes and rock formations and unusual plants. She looked up, revealing a sliver of her pale neck once more, and watched a few small clouds drift across the sky. The feathers on her hat bounced and swayed with the rocking of the cart, though she seemed unperturbed by the rough ride.

The bronze sign over the entryway appeared first. “TREVELYAN RANCH,” it read in bold letters. It was weatherworn, but stood strong and high. Miss Trevelyan’s shoulders and back straightened and stiffened at the sight. Her jaw clenched tight, and Cullen might have heard her swallow. He could not be certain over the sounds of the wagon.

The ranch sat near enough to the Forbidden Oasis to be somewhat lush. It was perfect land for druffalo, if druffalo had to be raised outside of Ferelden. Grass and weeds sprouted from the ground on this patch of land and that, and a heap of spare straw and barley was strewn about over the front pasture for grazing. Several members of the herd ambled about near the fence along the entryway, only to be startled off by the wagon as it rolled past. They grunted and huffed as they ran. Miss Trevelyan’s lyrium blue eyes watched the beasts with what might have been intense fascination or intense fear.

Near the homestead, Cullen caught sight of the broad swing of a waving arm. The cowman, Cole, greeted and beckoned them from under his enormous sombrero. Cullen recalled the day Donal Trevelyan brought that hat into town from Antiva. He was so eager to give it to the pallid young man. Cole had not taken the thing off since, as far as Cullen could tell.

The brim of the sombrero flopped about as Cole ran up to the wagon once the horse stopped. “You’re Dahlia,” he said, more excited than Cullen had ever heard him. “I’m Cole.”

Miss Trevelyan’s even expression broke for the first time, a genuine smile parting her lips. It was as odd a sight at it was a beautiful one. She was a different woman when she smiled like that. A woman Cullen hoped to meet someday.

“It is so nice to finally meet you, Cole,” she said.

The boy helped her off the wagon before Cullen could round the back. He also hoisted her trunk up and away with more ease than a boy that size should have managed and carried it to the porch. He brought a cool glass of water back with him, thrusting it into Cullen’s hand so forcefully that it nearly spilled onto the dirt.

“Branson’s mending a fence in the back pasture,” said Cole. His voice was so strange, like the sound of wind through the dry brush. “Not back until sundown. Said to say, ‘hello,’ if I saw you. Hello.”

Cullen reached for the back of his neck yet again, only to be met with sweat-soaked skin. “I—Ah—Thank you, Cole. Please tell him I asked after him.” He took a long gulp of the cold water and felt it wash down his throat and pool in his stomach.

“I’ll tell him to come to town for supper soon. You want him to. He would like that.”

“Uh—Thank you.” It was unnerving when he did that. Cullen had yet to discern how he always seemed to know people’s hearts with such clarity.

“Sheriff Rutherford,” said Miss Trevelyan, “thank you so very much for your assistance in bringing me to my new home. Would you care to come inside to rest for a moment before you depart?”

He wanted to go inside. He longed for the solace of the shade and the time to speak further. It seemed untoward, however, to accept her invitation, to enter her home so soon after meeting her and so long before she had the chance to learn the intricacies of the house for herself. “Thank you for the offer, Miss Trevelyan, but I have been away from town for too long already. I should start back.”

Her composure might have slipped for a moment, or Cullen might have been sun-scorched delusional, but he could have sworn she looked disappointed. “I understand. I am sorry for keeping you from your duties, and thank you again for your gracious welcome and assistance. I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

“You, as well, Miss Trevelyan.”

She did not wait for him to leave before she turned to make her way into the house. Her walk was purposeful, her black skirt kicking up dust as it dragged along behind her. Cole took the glass from Cullen’s hand.

“Alright,” said the boy. It was not meant as an affront or as a demand, but as a kind of consolation. He would ensure the lady’s comfort until Cullen saw her next. Branson would be back before nightfall to keep her safe. All would be well in his absence, not that he should have cared as much as he did.

Cullen climbed onto the wagon to ride back home. He clicked his tongue against his back teeth and tugged the reins to circle the horse and leave the ranch the same way he had entered. As the bold bronze sign fell back below the horizon, he wondered at what Miss Trevelyan’s arrival meant for the town. The impending turmoil that could usurp the peace and property of everyone there felt as though it rested on his shoulders, and now he had one more soul weighing on his conscience. He pondered what could become of everyone if he failed, if Corypheus’s plans succeeded.

What would happen to Dahlia Trevelyan if he could not protect her from the man who murdered her father?

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me for this first chapter!!! With life how it is (if this still only has one chapter when you're reading this postscript), the next chapter may not be uploaded for a bit, but I do plan to devote my full attention to it soon! So stay tuned!!!
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> As always, kudos/comments/con-crit are welcome and encouraged.
> 
> Come on over to my [tumblr](kaoruyogi.tumblr.com) and talk it up with me if you'd like!


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